The Hardest Thing

I stopped by to see my mom yesterday on the way home from work.  Our visit was, as usual, a mixed bag for me.  I'd had a difficult day at work and my emotional tank was on empty, so I probably wasn't equipped to step into the abyss that is her life for an hour or so without it leaving a mark.


Twice during our visit, probably 15 minutes apart, my mom referred to me as her husband.  When I gently explained that I'm her son - and I know I should let that go, bit I just can't - her face clouded and she told me that made her sad.  Both times, she asked me why I would marry her if I was her son.  I was crushed, again, because her sadness and hurt are so raw and visceral. 


That's the hardest thing, I think.  When I visit my mom, I am destined to hurt her every time when she realizes (or I remind her) that we're not married and that I am her son.  I have been so proud to be my mother's son for so long.  She's made me who I am on so many levels.  She's been my rock, my anchor.  My best friend.  Suddenly (or not so suddenly), I have to deny to her that I am her son to keep from breaking her heart every time I see her.  It feels wrong, like I am betraying her.


I left her place and drove home in a funk.  Just sad, really sad.  I woke up this morning feeling the same way.  Sad for her and sad for me.  I want to smile again, to laugh again without reservation and without this shadow of worry and hopelessness looming over my head.


I hate this disease - Alzheimer's - so much.  It's robbed my mom of her mind and it's robbed me of my mom.  Sometimes I can't decide which is worse.